


there's no blood

by chonkytheslur



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, Scars, Self-Harm, he's not suicidal but there's some ~ambiguity~, this sounds very dark but also also alsoooo consider this: they love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chonkytheslur/pseuds/chonkytheslur
Summary: Everything has changed since the War, except it hasn't. Draco's still marred with scars. He still deserves to have them.Harry Potter seems to have grown friendlier, though...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	there's no blood

**Author's Note:**

> please take draco's narration with a grain of salt. self harm of any kind, visible or not, should be taken seriously! if you struggle with it, please seek help!!
> 
> huuuuge thanks to my betas, [darrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darrinya/pseuds/darrinya), [margot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontthrowsticksatme/pseuds/Dontthrowsticksatme) and [meg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullmetallegends/pseuds/fullmetallegends) y'all are REAL ONES and deserve to have PLANETS NAMED AFTER YOU!!!!

Thin red welts are running down his arms. Draco stares at his shaking hands in the mirror, then back at his arms. 

There’s no blood. He suspects the scratches might bruise, but he doesn’t mind. If he’s lucky, they might obscure the Mark. 

There’s no blood. The scratches are not as angry as he expected them to look. Draco stares at himself in the mirror and sees the blotchy, tear-streaked face of a child staring back at him.

* * *

Fourth Year: scratching and picking.

Fifth Year: scratching and picking.

Sixth Year: the tip of his wand on his skin, searing pain, burning, electric shocks shooting through his veins. At some point his skin stops stitching itself together, like it’s given up. He doesn’t remember most of it. 

Seventh Year: scratching and picking.

Eighth Year: to be determined.

* * *

He picked up the habit halfway through Fourth Year when the stress of school had finally begun to take a toll on him.

Draco’s father would smile, a deadly leer, and say, “Draco, is it true that the Mudblood’s marks are higher than yours?” His voice was silky smooth, and Draco remembers being a child and revering the way it could charm the highest of Ministry officials. Now, it makes Draco’s stomach churn.

“Yes, father.”

Lucius’ cane strikes his shoulder, harsh and unyielding. 

“No son of mine will be second best to filth,” he spits.

Those words come back to him when he’s taking a History of Magic test and none of the material is coming to him, and Granger is scribbling away a few desks in front of him and his chest is constricting, his throat is burning, oh no, oh _fuck_ -

His nails dig into his thighs, causing the most delicious burning. He presses harder and the pressure in his throat alleviates slightly. By the time the exam is over, red fingernail marks are imprinted deep into his wrists, arms, and legs, hidden under his robes.

From that day on, he learns to trade one kind of pain for another. 

It’s no big deal. There’s no blood.

* * *

Most people probably assume he covers his forearms to obscure the Mark. They wouldn’t be wrong… they wouldn’t exactly be right, either.

Pansy knows, of course. She’d figured it out in Sixth Year, when she visited him in the hospital wing after the _Sectumsempra_ incident and found long scars all up and down his forearms, visible near the still healing wounds painting his chest and torso.

“Draco, is that…?”

The hot shame that spread through him still clings to him years later. 

“What does it bloody matter?”

“Why don’t you heal them?” she hissed, still taking in the sight of his scarred upper body with something akin to horror. 

“They stopped healing, alright?” 

He pulled the sheets over his chest and turned to face the window. He had tried to heal them the first few times, but eventually the continued reopening of wounds overwhelmed his rudimentary healing skills.

Part of him desperately needed the scars to stay there, anyway.

And so, Pansy is still the only person aware of Draco’s self-inflicted injuries, and he’s willing to keep it that way. 

Since he isn’t planning on offing himself anytime soon, he figures the largest problem at hand is the issue of the scars: long sleeves and the wide berth most people gave him would surely be enough to make this a non-issue. 

It’s a decent plan, but in the post-war chaos, he’s forgotten one important, infuriating detail: Potter’s chronic nosiness.

* * *

In hindsight, it makes sense why he was apparently suspicious. Always in large - but still highly fashionable - clothing, jumping at noises, sneaking off by himself every night. Draco thinks it’s just the trauma but Potter’s brain is hard-wired to save people, so what can you do.

It takes Draco a total of two weeks to realize something is off.

Clearly, his Slytherin abilities are slipping, because he’s startled when Pansy flicks him on the forehead and says, conversationally, “Why didn’t you tell me you and Potter were shagging?”

He just gapes, like Weasley when he’s called on in Potions. “What?”

Pansy rolls her eyes and places a roll on his plate. She’s been awfully protective of him since the War. It’s less embarrassing for them both if they just pretend it’s not happening. “He’s always like, five paces behind you, while you’re sneaking off to wherever the fuck it is you get off to all the time.” A pause. “Get off, haha.”

“Puns are tacky,” he scoffs, but the effect is ruined by his scarlet cheeks. “Wait, did you say he’s been following me?”

“He’s really not that subt-”

_"Again?_ ” This is just ridiculous. Stupid fucking Potter and his inability to leave anything - to leave _Draco, specifically_ , alone. Can’t he see that the War is over? That Draco is done?

She blinks. “You’re fucking… again?”

“No! I wouldn’t go anywhere _near_ him, I hate him,” Draco says vehemently, setting his goblet down with a loud clatter.

He throws a spectacular glare in the Gryffindor table’s general direction and stalks out of the Great Hall, wishing Potter would just _fuck off_. 

At least his dramatic exits remain magnificent.

* * *

The lake is a pale blue sheet of glass, matching the chill in the air. Standing side by side with Pansy, staring out into the distant mountains, Draco feels more at peace than he has in years.

“I thought it’d be a nice reprieve from the never-ending angst your family causes you,” Pansy says conversationally. “Wanna skip stones?”

Draco turns his nose up to remind her that Malfoys do not engage in such plebeian activities when a noise nearby catches his attention. His hand inches towards his wand. McGonagall enforced strict anti-violence protocols, but the stray vigilante occasionally slips through the cracks. It’s almost funny how his heart is hammering. He lived with fucking Voldemort for over a year, yet the rustle of a bush triggers his fight or flight response.

Pansy rolls her eyes, points her wand at some indiscernible shape and says, _“Incarcerous!”_

A roped-up and thrashing Potter falls onto the ground beside him. Draco allows a moment to envy Potter’s brown skin, because he’s as red as a tomato, and he rather hates the way Pansy is winking at him.

“There, he’s all ready for you now, Draco!” Her voice is a suggestive sing-song, and he shoots her a look as sharp as broken glass. She’s flouncing back to the castle before he even gets the chance to strangle her. 

Potter probably doesn’t even get the joke. And his clothes are dirty.

“Have you been playing in the mud, Potter?” he scoffs. 

Potter deadpans, “No, I’ve been fucking in it, apparently.” Oh okay, so he _does_ get the joke. Draco’s face, if possible, grows even hotter. 

Draco nudges Potter with a single shiny boot, rather enjoying the change in dynamic. His shadow falls over Potter’s figure, darkening half of his face. “Why are you stalking me, Potter?” 

“So Parkinson could tie me up,” Potter spits back defiantly. “It’s my favorite hobby.”

Draco seriously can’t tell if Potter’s getting the joke or not. 

The implications of Potter’s statement seem to dawn on him after a moment. “Oh, um,” he scrambles as if to adjust his glasses, but his arms are still bound to his sides, and he ends up flopping around like a fish. “Not that I was stalking you. Obviously.”

The War must have addled his brain because even _Potter_ used to be better than that at lying. He scowls when Draco tells him so, and he’s tempted to walk away and leave him there alone on the ground. He tells him that, too.

“Please just untie me, Draco,” Potter says, and he sounds tired. Draco falters, caught off balance. Potter’s not the type to lay down - _ha_ \- and take it.

“Aren’t you gonna put up a fight?” he asks, bewildered.

Potter shrugs, an awkward, aborted movement within the constraints of the ropes, and fixes Draco with a sardonic smile. “Maybe I’m biding my time and waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“You sound awfully Slytherin.”

A loud snort escapes from Potter’s lips. “Just untie me,” he says.

Draco rolls his eyes and releases the _Incarcerous_ , not because Potter told him to, but purely because he was bored. “Are you gonna tell me why you’re following me or am I gonna have to steal your wand? Like you stole mine.” Spite forces the last line out. He only half regrets it. If Pansy were here, she’d roll her eyes and call him petty, but she isn’t, so he mentally applauds himself.

Potter ignores the cheap jab and sighs, stretching out on the grass. The green is patchy, broken up by the sand from the beach. Draco takes a moment to wrinkle his nose in distaste at the dirt getting on Potter’s trousers, before transfiguring a nearby rock into a blanket, and sitting down a few inches away from Potter. 

He’s staring at the lake again. The oddest part isn’t the fact that he’s sitting with Potter, it’s that it feels just as therapeutic as it did with Pans. A light breeze combs through Draco’s hair, easing a sigh from his lips. Even Potter can’t corrode his momentary peace. Not when he’s so determined to feel it.

“I’m not planning another murder, if that’s what you were trying to figure out,” Draco says. He keeps his eyes resolutely looking forward, his voice jaded and hard.

“I didn’t think you-”

Draco cuts off Potter’s incoming rant and adopts the most no-nonsense tone he can muster. “I don’t need saving, either.”

Silence stretches between them, expanding with every second. “Malfoy, I don’t have a hero complex,” Potter responds dully. Draco wonders if they’re dancing around the real meanings of their words on purpose. He’s not sure he even knows what they _are_.

“I didn’t think you did, Potter,” he says, then rethinks. “Actually, no, you definitely do, but that’s not the point. Either you’re following me around because you think I’m going to bring the next Dark Lord into the castle, or your bizarre Gryffindor senses are tingling again and you think if you don’t rescue me your dick will fall off.”

Potter doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. Draco makes a mental note and files it into his ongoing “How to Make Potter Shut Up” folder.

He counts down in his head, examining his nails idly: three…two…

“I’m worried, okay?” The words burst out of Potter like it was killing him to hold them in. Draco smirks in satisfaction, moving back to rest on his elbows and allow the light breeze to massage his scalp. “You barely eat at meals, you’re so quiet all the time, and you’ve lost weight-”

“Savior complex,” Draco sings, his heart a terrified drum in his chest.

“-you’re always going off alone to random places, and it’s hot as hell out but you only wear long sleeves and-” He’s cut off by Draco’s sharp intake of breath.

Rationally, he knew other people would notice. Morbid curiosity and the need to judge always drew people’s eyes to his left arm. Potter’s realization was inevitable.

The rest of his brain doesn’t seem to get the memo though, judging by the deep panic tearing through his stomach and up his throat.

“Get away,” he says, hating the weakness he feels, hating the way it’s oozing out of him.

Even worse, Potter’s looking at him in pity. This ignites a flame in Draco’s chest, kindled by the pride still drilled somewhere deep down inside of him. “Draco, I’m sorry, I just-”

“I said _get away from_ _me."_ The deadliness in his voice is diminished by the shaking of his shoulders, but he doesn’t care. As long as Potter sits there, pinning him down with his hesitant looks and frowns, Draco’s lungs won’t fill with air.

“Fuck you, Potter,” he spits, and he’s buzzing with fury when he walks off.

The fury consumes him, crawling over every crevice of his mind and body. It’s times like these when he doesn’t know what to do with himself and isn’t able to contain the wave of emotions within his thin frame.

His hands twitch. He shoves them into his pockets, and squeezes them into fists.

* * *

That night, Draco catches a glimpse of his Dark Mark in the shower. It’s marred by thin scars, distorting the ugly gray lines, not enough to hide it, but enough to bring bile to the top of Draco’s throat at the very sight.

His fist meets the shower wall, clinging to the cold, wet tiles. His fingers, spreading open, scramble desperately across the wall as if in an attempt to ground him. The water rains down onto his skin like sharp pellets of hail, cold and unyielding. In one last-ditch attempt to clear his mind, to cut it clean away from his body until he’s blissfully empty, he brings his head to the wall near his hands, reaching for something concrete and cold.

Except- 

Problem: the steam is clouding his senses, heightening his anxiety.

Problem: his limbs are shaking and it takes most of his effort to stand upright, to hold himself together instead of tearing off his skin.

Problem: he can’t remember the last time he got a full night’s rest.

His head lands onto the wall with a loud _crack_.

Somewhere between the spray of the water matting down his hair and the cold hard tiles of the shower wall, a miscalculation occurs. That is, if it was even an accident at all.

By the time he wakes up in the hospital wing, his memory is too foggy to tell him which.

There’s blood.

* * *

It takes five minutes after he wakes up for Pansy to storm into the room, two minutes for her to stop yelling at him, one minute for the hug to end, and another two minutes for his cheek to stop stinging when she slaps him. Gray streaks run down her face from where tears mixed with her mascara.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he reassures her, which is clearly the wrong thing to say because she starts crying even harder.

“Fuck you,” she says.

“Whore,” he responds, and now he’s crying too. “I’m sorry.”

_“Fuck you,”_ she repeats, and he opens the covers for her to climb in next to him.

Within a few minutes, he falls asleep, head drooping against Pansy’s shoulder. The hospital wing had been lonely without her, all blank white walls and stifling silence. The buzz of loneliness was tangible, crawling through his ears and plugging them until he felt the familiar itch in his arms. The silence was broken when she walked in.

He’s woken up what feels like five minutes later by the opening of the hospital wing door and the sound of frantic voices. He stirs groggily, met with the sight of Harry Potter rushing over to his bed with a bouquet in hand and Madam Pomfrey looking disproving from ten feet away.

“It’s going to scar,” Draco calls out unprompted. “My head. I’ll be hideous. Do tell me Potter, how do you deal with it?”

“Hilarious,” Potter responds drily. His eyes flicker awkwardly to Pansy, but she raises an eyebrow in response and doesn’t budge. “Right, um.” He clears his throat awkwardly.

“Are you sure you’re not following me?” Draco says, tilting his head. “It kind of feels like you are.”

It’s almost cute, the deer-in-headlights look Potter adopts. “I just heard that you were in the hospital wing,” he mumbles, fiddling with the flowers in his hands. 

Draco sighs and takes pity on him. “Give me those.” He reaches for the flowers, transfigures a vase, and places them on the nightstand. To Potter’s credit, they are rather lovely, and they smell delightful.

“Did Granger help you with this?” he asks. Pansy snorts beside him.

Potter scratches the back of his neck. “Oh! Uh, no, Neville did, actually.”

It’s painfully awkward. Potter’s still averting his eyes like a kicked puppy, Pansy is now smacking her chewing gum, and Draco can’t take his eyes off Potter. 

“Right,” Pansy drawls after a moment, and steps out of the bed. Draco shoots her a panicked look. “Empty seat now.” 

She pats Potter on the back and leaves with a single look over her shoulder. It’s entirely in character for her, changing her mind within two minutes and then never explaining herself. He figures she’s only comfortable leaving because she plans to return in an hour when Potter’s gone.

“She’s a terrible friend,” Draco says the minute the doors close, loud enough that he knows she can hear it. “What a bitch!”

Potter laughs like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to, and the anger in his chest hissing at Potter relaxes at the sight. He’s too tired to pick fights anymore.

“Merlin, it’s depressing looking at you. Just come fucking sit already. God.” Why is Potter looking at him like that? He’s supposed to be brash and annoying; now he’s just meek and annoying. It’s off putting. 

“Yes, here.” He pats the spot where Pansy once was when Potter gives him yet another hesitant look.

Potter does, pulling the covers almost up to his chin, and Draco most definitely does not find it cute. 

“You’re not going to break me just by being here,” Draco says with a sigh. The words “I can assure you I’m just fine,” are on the tip of his tongue, but even Potter wouldn’t fall for that. He slips his arms under the covers, almost subconsciously. “Why are you here, Potter?”

Light is shining through the window behind the bed, rays of sun coming to rest on Potter’s dark curls. Draco stares, transfixed, as he worries his bottom lip.

“I just…wanted to apologize. For, you know.” 

Draco thinks of the conversation by the lake, where he lost his shit at Potter’s observation of his sleeves.

Draco just shrugs, hoping he doesn’t look as embarrassed as he feels. Why does Potter always find him like this? 

Potter clears his throat when it becomes clear that Draco isn’t going to respond. “And, um…”

“You really do have a way with words.”

“Fuck you, I was worried, okay?” The words burst out of Potter’s mouth in one continuous line, a single angry breath. “Is that what you want to hear?”

Draco doesn’t respond simply because he doesn’t know the answer. He’s spent most of Eighth Year avoiding most people but _especially_ Potter, keeping his head down, focusing on studies. In all honesty, he’s been too preoccupied trying to stop being a piece of shit to spare Potter more than a passing thought. Most of the time.

In one sudden movement, Potter takes his shirt off.

Draco closes his eyes, appalled and panicked. “What the fuck? If you’re planning on assaulting me, just know that-”

“Piss off. That’s not what I - please, just open your eyes.”

Cautiously, he peeks one eye open, then the other. The sight that meets his eyes leaves a gasp stuck in his throat, painfully lodged there until tears prick behind his eyes. “What have you done to yourself?” he whispers.

Potter shrugs, as if anything about this is casual. “The same thing I suspect you have.”

His torso is shredded with long scars, over his chest, his upper arms, his stomach; every inch of his skin that could be hidden under a shirt seems to be scarred over. Directly over his heart is one shining, red, oval. Draco’s chest aches at the violence of it, of something long dead but still visible. If there’s any anger left in Draco now, it leaves in the form of a long, shuddering breath.

A part of him is reminded of his Sectumsempra scars, but he pushes the rising bitterness away. The scars look different, somehow, when they’re on another person.

He has the strangest urge to touch, to comfort. Instead, he pushes down the blankets and, with a shaking hand, pulls up his own sleeve.

Potter reaches out his own hand, marred with scars - _I must not tell lies,_ he can faintly make out - and grasps Draco’s hand in his own. 

“We make quite a sight,” Draco says faintly. “All cut up and shit.”

A sound halfway between a laugh and a sob escapes Potter, and he keels over on Draco’s legs, still sob-laughing. A small smile comes to Draco’s face, despite everything. 

* * *

“I wasn’t trying to off myself, Professor-”

“Mr. Malfoy, I’m afraid this matter is non-negotiable.”

“...”

“Twice a week. And have a look through the pamphlets. Mind Healers are new in the Wizarding World, but necessary.”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall.”

“I’m sure you weren’t intending for your actions to have the consequences they did, but you should never have been placed in this position in the first place. I- I worry for your generation, sometimes.”

“...Yes, Professor McGonagall.”

* * *

It’s a full week before he does it again.

He doesn’t normally make a habit of looking at newspapers, but he catches sight of the Prophet during breakfast that morning. It’s laying underneath a plate of toast, as if someone had left it there for safekeeping.

**_MALFOY HONOR RESTS ON FRAGILE SHOULDERS_ **are the only words he can make out from his angle, and he doesn’t even want to read the rest of the headline. Naturally, he scoots closer so he can see.

Only a few phrases are clear enough for him to see: _“...should be in Azkaban”; “Malfoys seen in Knockturn Alley, is it possible they might be…?”; “...massive fortune lost…”_

It’s nothing new, so it really shouldn’t shake him like it does. The family deserved their fallen grace after the War, after centuries of bribery and hatred. A single bead of nervous sweat rolls down his side.

He sits back down to hide the shaking and lets out a sarcastic comment to wipe the concern off of Pansy’s face. What he needs is a tether back to Earth. His mind is already making plans, plans for when he gets back to the dorm, for when he’s alone. 

He tries to stop, he really does. All throughout Transfiguration, he holds a cube of ice tight in his hand. The harder he squeezes it, the more pain he wrings out, until it’s melted, and he’s shivering, and it’s just _not enough._

(There’s no use trying to stop himself when he’s already made up his mind.)

Four hours pass and he’s in front of the bathroom mirror.

He never intended for it to get this bad. The urge to gain control, the need for release, turned into something more sinister almost immediately. 

On days like these, he remembers the Fiendfyre: all-consuming, a roaring wave of terror so hot his eyes burned. The sight of his own body, falling into a fiery snake’s mouth had flashed before his eyes, almost like a prophecy. But then: a single hand, outstretched and sweaty, and cold air rushing into his lungs.

Staring at his scars in the mirror feels like being consumed by Fiendfyre. 

In reality though, he’s alone in the bathroom, surrounded by solitude so crushing he can barely breathe. The overwhelming need to destroy tears through his veins. 

His hand, shaking and pale, reaches out to lock the door. The dorms are on the other side - he can’t have his roommates walking in on him.

The blade of the knife pokes against Draco’s skin, innocent in the stillness before he drags it down sharply. He’s a coward. It’s barely a scratch, only a thin white line and dry skin peeling around it. 

There’s no blood.

A tear rolls down his cheek and drops onto his skin. Only one. He’s controlled today, a statue, splintering stone.

The Mark shines on his skin like it’s mocking him. Draco laughs thickly, and the action pushes him forward, deeper onto the knife.

Being branded by the Dark Lord had taught him an important coping mechanism: stoicism. If he held completely still, he could meet those horrible red eyes and pretend it was what he wanted, even as tears of pain swam in his eyes. It was like playing dead - distancing himself from reality was a necessity when the Dark Lord was sleeping three rooms away. 

His breathing quiets.

Redness falls out, sticky and warm. He keeps going.

Keeps going. Keeps going.

There’s blood. 

He washes it away, but it keeps coming. Part of him believes the pain will wash away with the blood like it’s traveling downstream, like it’s a tangible thing, but most of him watches in detachment. Rivulets run down the sink, red to pink to a faint brown residue until he clears it away with a charm. 

He rests his forearms against the sink, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. A single flick of the wand: a bandage. Another flick: it’s fastened on his wrist. He leaves the bathroom.

It’s almost formulaic at this point.

* * *

“Hey.” Potter sidles up to him in the library, smiling because this is what they do now, apparently.

Draco sets his textbook down. “Hello.”

“Do you think you’re going to Hogsmeade this weekend?” 

It’s been years since he’s even thought about Hogsmeade in this context, as a place to go for fun. He rather misses it. “I’m not sure.”

Potter bites his lip, which Draco resents, because it’s distracting and uncouth. “Do you wanna go with me?”

Draco furrows his brows, wondering how Granger and the Weasleys would feel about this. It takes him a moment to remind himself that Potter is an adult, and if his friends were really that upset then they would just have to deal. “Okay.”

He turns back to his textbook, but Potter is still there. “Really?” he says, shock displayed across his face.

“You’d think saving the world yet again would be a boost of confidence, honestly,” Draco says conversationally, flipping a page. “If you want me to change my mind, I can.” He raises a single eyebrow, a trick he perfected in fourth year. It’s rather impressive. 

“Oh, no,” Potter backtracks. “No, I just thought - actually, um great.” He looks absolutely mortified, and the sight almost makes Draco laugh. “I’ll meet you in the Entrance Hall at seven tomorrow?”

“See you then.” Draco watches him walk out, looking endearingly awkward as if a puppeteer is orchestrating every individual step he takes. This new, uncertain version of Potter is a strange mix of foreign and entirely familiar. He’s like a child: bumbling around like an idiot, but unapologetically earnest. Always earnest. Draco wonders what it must be like to live a life so genuine.

* * *

Draco flips off Pansy and her ridiculous kissy faces on the way out of the Slytherin Common Room, then meets Potter in the Entrance Hall at seven, as promised. 

“No Weasley and Granger?” he asks, surprised to see him alone. 

Potter only laughs, eyebrows furrowed slightly. “We’re not glued to each other’s sides, contrary to popular belief... Well, actually it happened once but we got unstuck. Erm, you ready?”

Shaking his head slightly, he makes his way out the doors and they walk side by side, hands in their pockets to keep out the cold. Potter shoots him furtive glances every so often as they walk down the snowy paths, but Draco ignores them, wondering vaguely if his strange new behavior is a byproduct of the War.

They wind up in Honeydukes, examining the colorful shelves of candy. A few people cling to the sides, watching them pass with admiration, disdain, or both. They pretend not to notice. 

Then Draco catches sight of a box of edible Dark Marks and wonders if he might throw up.

“Draco, look at these,” Harry tugs his sleeve excitedly, like a little kid, and the spell is broken. “They have, like, twenty new flavors.” He’s holding a box of Sugar Quills in his hand, a multicolored array of delicate treats. Draco doesn’t have the heart to tell him he hates Sugar Quills.

They gather a few more things: chocolate frogs, Peppermint Imps, _not_ Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans - the novelty of those wore off by fourth year - and when Draco pulls out his money to pay, Harry pushes his arm down.

“Let me,” he says, and hands the Galleons to the clerk before Draco has the chance to do anything. Draco shakes his head as they leave the store. He’ll just buy Potter a hot chocolate or something to make up for it.

They meander through the streets for a while, stopping at colorful storefronts and cracking jokes as if they’d been friends for - well, as if they were friends. Draco side-eyes Potter every now and then, searching his face for clues about what the fuck is going on. Every time, he’s met with a small smile or a quip, or the intentional bumping of Potter’s shoulder into his. By the time they reach Zonko’s, Draco stops overthinking and relishes in the warmth of the sun on his back, on Potter holding the door open for him instead of slamming it in his face with a sneer.

He really should’ve known it couldn’t last.

“It’s not as good as the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes,” Potter leans in towards him as if he’s telling a secret. “But it’s the next best.” Draco’s momentary joy slides away and leaves him cold.

“I’m not allowed in the Weasleys’ joke shop,” he says stiffly, and Potter stops walking. 

He clears his throat. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Draco echoes, and turns his face away in embarrassment. Of course he fucked it up right as things were starting to feel natural. Potter and him weren’t designed to be friends, and it was naïve of him to believe it could happen after seven years of hostility if they brushed everything under a rug. 

Potter reaches a hand towards Draco, but he flinches away. Hurt spreads all across Potter’s face, but hardens after a moment. 

“Do you not want to be here?” Potter says flatly. Draco stuffs his hands into his pockets and clenches a determined jaw. Potter hasn’t talked to him like that in weeks, but the tone is still familiar. 

“No,” Draco turns and fixes him with the coldest look he can muster. “No, I don’t actually.”

Potter flounders for a moment, as if he’s been knocked off course, but he regathers himself. “Why did you come then?” The question is buried underneath a mountain of anger, but the words are tame. Draco’s smothered by the question.

“So I could be your fucking charity case,” he snaps. “Or maybe so you don’t tell the whole school I’m plotting murder again. Yeah, I said it. We both know what happened.” He steps towards Potter, towering over him. He’d forgotten how short Potter really was. It always felt like he was below him, always a few steps behind. “Is that why you’re always around, acting nice? Trying to catch me in the act?”

Potter’s breathing loud and for a moment Draco thinks he’s about to be punched, but he says, in a voice shaking with anger, “Is that what you think this is? You _really-”_

Potter shakes his head disbelievingly, turns, and slams the door on his way out without so much as a last glare back at Draco. The bell on the door swings wildly in his wake and Draco slumps against the shelves, deflating the minute Potter stomps out of sight.

  
The two other patrons of the shop gape at him, but he shoots them both a filthy glare. His ears are still ringing. He’s certain he’s never hated Potter more than he does at this moment. 

* * *

Eighth year: scratching and picking and cutting. 

* * *

Draco doesn’t realize how drastically things have changed between him and Potter until he looks over at the Gryffindor table and Potter doesn’t look back. He scoots a few inches to the left until Greg’s face is obscuring Potter from view.

He pulls his sleeves back down when they slide up as he raises his arms to drink. He chases away Pansy’s concerned looks with a joke. He ignores the empty space where Vincent used to sit. It’s almost like nothing’s changed.

Except it has.

* * *

He’s walking back from his bi-weekly Mind Healer session - the ones McGonagall forced him into - when he runs into Granger and Weasley on the stairs. It’s his first reaction to nod politely and step around them, like he’s been doing all year.

Except-

Observation: They barely even look up, and Weasley’s eyebrows are knit in worry instead of a scowl.

Observation: Potter isn’t with them.

“Granger. Weasley,” he says, and they stop. They’re three steps above him, and he has to look up at them awkwardly. “Is - where’s Potter?”

He expects them to snap at him, but Granger bites her lip and some silent exchange passes between the two. “Just… come with us, mate,” Weasley sighs, and Draco does a double take.

“What?”

Weasley looks pained when he says, “Don’t make me say it again.” And then they’re walking briskly down the hall, Draco’s long legs working to keep up.

They lead him to the hospital wing and barrel through the doors without a second of hesitation. Potter’s in the bed closest to the door and Draco skids to a stop the second he sees him.

The anger he’s grown accustomed to since their Hogsmeade weekend is gone in Potter’s slumber. He’s drooling a little, with his wild hair splayed across the pillow. What really draws Draco’s attention, though, is the blood on the white sheets. 

A wave of deja vu crashes over him, from the sight of Potter’s graveyard of a torso, only last time Draco had been the one in the bed, and this time - this time, the roles are reversed.

Pomfrey bustles busily around his bedside, bottles of colorful potions covering the nightstand. “No visitors, please,” she says briskly, but none of them move. She must be too busy to argue, because she sighs, “Just stay out of the way and let him rest, the three of you.”

The blood is coming from his arm, and Draco watches, transfixed, as the pool of blood vanishes into the tip of Pomfrey’s wand and the wound slowly stitches into one long scar. It looks strange, a single scar marring an otherwise smooth surface. Potter hadn’t harmed his forearms before, as far as he knew; he’d stuck to his upper arms, chest, stomach, even his shoulders. 

Granger and Weasley step to his bedside, and when Granger starts to cry, Weasley wraps an arm around her. They don’t even notice when Draco leaves.

* * *

He comes back later that night, when everyone is asleep and Pomfrey won’t make him leave. Potter is sitting up wide awake, covers kicked to the foot of his bed. He doesn’t seem fazed when Draco walks in.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Potter says, and deja vu swoops through Draco again when he remembers telling Pansy the exact same thing. 

Potter doesn’t look angry anymore; maybe he still is, but is too tired to show it. Draco can’t tell, but when he perches himself on the chair next to the bed, Potter doesn’t protest. 

“Hogsmeade was supposed to be a date.” Potter’s voice comes out hollow, and Draco’s head snaps up. 

“What?”

He shrugs. “That’s why I got so upset. I dunno. I was embarrassed.” 

Draco is knocked off balance, not only by the abrupt change in subject, but by the mundane excuse coming out of The Savior of the Wizarding World’s mouth. He sounds like… he sounds like a regular teenager.

“But… what about-”

“Among other things,” Potter huffs, picking at the scar on his forearm idly. Draco knows that move: Potter’s on the verge of a breakdown, and he’s trying to act casual to cover it up. “I suppose we’ll get to talking about them. The… the War and everything. Eventually. If you want.”

He blinks, still trying to catch up. “Obviously I want, Harry, don’t be daft. You’re so dramatic. Even a Weasley could see that we can’t keep carrying on the way we have.”

Potter laughs again, shoulders shaking, and immediately the action morphs into a sob. Draco abandons whatever was still holding him back and crawls on top of the bed, pulling Potter close to his body. His hand comes to rest at the base of his neck, holding onto the dark curls there. They’re matted with sweat. 

“We really need to stop meeting like this, Draco,” Potter mumbles into the base of his neck. A weak laugh escapes both of them.

Draco shifts so the tear leaking out of his eye hits Potter’s shirt instead of his bare skin. “If Granger doesn’t force you to go to a Mind Healer, I will.”

* * *

True to his word, once Potter is discharged the next day, Draco marches him straight to McGonagall’s office and pushes him in. “Go.”

“Merlin-”

He slams the door shut behind Potter and nods in satisfaction. He shakes his head, thinking to himself as he walks back to the dungeons. There’s no doubt Granger tried to get him treatment, but was too Gryffindor about it. That was the thing about Gryffindors: they were too _soft._ Granger probably just tried to nag him into submission. What Potter needed was a real push, a physical one. 

Draco smiles in self satisfaction.

* * *

The entrance to the Common Room opens and closes, but no one is there. Draco rolls his eyes, knowing who it is immediately. “I’ll be back in a few.” He presses a kiss to the top of Pansy’s head and walks up the stairs to his dorm.

A minute later, Potter pulls the Invisibility Cloak off his head. “How did you know I was here?” He looks slightly put out.

Draco wonders how he got to be so fond of someone so hopelessly dumb. “How did you get in here?”

Harry shrugs, sitting on Draco’s bed. “Turns out Parselmouths don’t need a password to get in.” He shifts, laying his head on Draco’s chest, and Draco lights up in a blush. “Well, okay, I’m not one anymore but, you know,” he says with a shrug, “you remember things.”

“Sometimes you just say things, Potter,” Draco drawls, “as if everyone else finds them normal too.”

Harry laughs, and he’s still laughing when Draco takes his arm and rubs a salve - a gift from Pansy, one that she’d been giving since sixth year when she found out - into the cut. It wasn’t even that funny; he’s pretty sure Harry’s just laughing for the sake of it, forcing joy into existence. The sound of it is loud and annoying and he wants to kiss him.

The truth is, Draco sees the same pool of unrest draining into Harry’s lungs as he sees in himself. He wants to coax it out, or light a flame there until the ocean evaporates and Harry can breathe again. It’s calming, in a sick way: he’s floating on the surface of the water, seconds away from sinking back into the Earth.

Harry shifts slightly, throwing an arm across Draco’s waist. Draco cards his hands gently through the dark curls strewn across his chest. They’re soft, despite their unruly appearance. 

Draco takes in one deep breath and exhales slowly, the roaring waves subsiding for a moment. In the background is the low rumble of water in their chests, threatening to break their peace, but the premonition is drowned out by the sound of two slow hearts beating in tandem.

**Author's Note:**

> wanted to mention that my placeholder title for this was “mental illness innit.” i was THIS CLOSE to leaving it like that but professionalism :/
> 
> [tumblr lol](https://biginnyweasley.tumblr.com/)


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